I take a moment, my bloodied fingers loose about the knife hilt in my grasp. I can already feel it starting to dry, to stick to my skin. I place it upon the table and wipe my palm down my denim thigh, feeling the clumps attach and tug at the fibres.

“Nicolas? Where did you find h…no, never mind. It doesn’t matter. At least it’s done.”

‘And you?’

I look over to the body on the floor, some four or five feet from where I stand. Thomas Jenson. Or rather, the man formally known as. Jack hadn’t been able to do this one. He’d made up some excuse, tried to convince us both that it was simply a matter of logistics, but I knew better. Thomas. He could never cope with the name. To many memories of his brother, taken at far too young and age. But I didn’t mind. To me, he was just a face. A face and a symbol of the suffering we’d both gone through over the years.

“He’s dead.”

‘Mmmhmm.’ was all I received in response.

We remain silent for a while longer. It’s awkward now. The last few years, travelling together, we’d found our stride. But this was end and now what? Did we go back to the way things had been before? The hatred? The pain? I mean, we can’t be friends. No one can be friends after this.

But I don’t think I hate him. Not anymore.

‘That’s it then.’ he says and I nod. I know he can’t see me but the nod just seems right. It seems final.